


Life in Purgatory

by vandevere



Category: Law & Order, The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-14 08:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7162658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandevere/pseuds/vandevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of Tandem.  jack McCoy lives...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_**There's no law that says I can't AU my own AUs** _

Life in Purgatory

Prologue

_He sits on the floor of George Atkinson’s solarium, torn between grief and rage…_

_A Human/Alien Hybrid…_

_That was what George Atkinson said he was. **That** was what all those abductions, all those tests, were all about…_

**_They turned me into something alien, not human…_ **

_John James McCoy sits on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest, and all he feels is terror…_

_He remembers everything now; all the tests, all the times they drilled into his skull, all the times they planted… **something** …into his brain._

_“The holocaust…it starts tonight,” George Atkinson says, and all Jack McCoy knows is that he has to end it._

_Even if he has to die to end it._

_But, even though Atkinson has given him a gun, small-caliber, McCoy isn’t certain he has the nerve, the courage to actually put the thing to his head and squeeze the trigger._

_That’s when the home invasion happens._

_It begins innocuously enough, with a knock on the door.  The housekeeper, Rosita, is off for the night, so Atkinson answers it himself; and… **they** barge in…_

_Four men…_

_At least McCoy thinks they are men…_

_But, with faces resembling melted wax, that isn’t a certainty._

_One man grabs Atkinson with one hand, the other brandishing a short black…stick measuring no more than about five or six inches in length._

_And George Atkinson…_

_His body bursts into flame and he screams agonized screams,_

_It’s too late to help George, and McCoy has reached a limit anyway._

_Too much horror has already been heaped upon his head._

_He runs, sheer terror giving him an extra boost of adrenaline…_

_Out through the back door, three of the men in hot pursuit._

_Jack McCoy is ready to die to save his world, to save those he loves most; Adam and Claire._

_But he doesn’t want to die like… **that**._

_Not burned alive…_

_But it seems these men have other weapons besides those little black sticks._

_Two bullets through the back, and Jack McCoy is brought face down on the beautiful grounds of Atkinson’s back yard._

_Breathing is purest agony, and he can taste blood at the back of his throat._

_A hand turns him over, and the three men stand over him, staring at him with expressionless, pitiless eyes._

**_Please, let me die first,_ ** _McCoy wants to say.  He knows he’s dying._

_But one of the men bends over him, that black stick in hand._

_Light…_

_Brilliant… **blinding** …flares up overhead, and the men throw up their hands to shield their faces…_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Jeremiah Smith looked down.  Killing was such a repulsive thing to do.  But these men, such as they were, had left him with no choice but to kill.

The three out on the back yard, and the fourth, who had already taken on the face and form of the Terran who lived in this house; Jeremiah had been forced to kill all four of them.

Only the fifth man remained alive, and he wouldn’t be alive for long.

Blood trickled from the man’s nose and mouth, and his body twitched feebly.

“Shh…” Smith knelt, laid one hand on the man’s chest, the other on his forehead.

“It’s going to be all right…” he murmured as he summoned his _special gift…_

Ruptured organs became whole, torn blood vessels sewed themselves together, and the gunshot wounds healed under the force of Smith’s will.

The man’s breathing steadied, deepened, and his eyes fluttered open.

“What…” he gasped, profoundly disoriented.  “Who-“

“Shh…” Smith kept a hand on the man’s forehead.

“Go to sleep,” he commanded.  The man’s eyes fluttered closed again…

“It’s not enough to save your life,” Smith muttered, brushing tousled dark locks back from the man’s forehead.

_No…I need to make you disappear…_

One of the invaders was roughly the man’s height and weight; around six feet tall, and lean.

_Yes…_

Smith took hold of the man’s right hand, looked at the signet ring on the Ring Finger of his right hand, and now he knew what to do…

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Emil Skoda, on his way to George Atkinson’s house.  It was almost one AM now. 

Feeling bone-weary on arrival, he was greeted by an alarming sight.  Scores of police cruisers everywhere, lights awhirl, and the FBI too…

“What happened?” he asked the first cop he found.

“Home invasion.  Several casualties.”

_Oh god…Jack McCoy…_

“A friend of mine was here,” Skoda began.  “I-“

“Dr. Skoda…”

The psychiatrist turned to see George Atkinson’s chauffeur…Alex-walk up, accompanied by a young-looking FBI agent.

“FBI Agent Jeffrey Spender,” Alex made the introductions.  Skoda nodded impatiently.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Home invasion,” Spender’s voice trembled a little.  “We think four men.  They killed George Atkinson.  But… _something_ …happened out in the back.”

The FBI agent took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself.

“Atkinson’s body is in the front entry, and there are four bodies out in the back yard.”

“Four bodies…” now Skoda was trembling.  “I need to see them.”

“Follow me…” Spender led Skoda through the house, passing a sheet-covered form just inside.

There were four more bodies out in the back; each body covered by sheets, and the smell of char, of burnt flesh lay heavy on the air.

“He’d be around six feet tall, and on the thin side…” Skoda fought to keep the trembling out of his voice.

“Here, sir,” a cop stood by one of the sheet-covered bodies.

Skoda didn’t want to do this…

He didn’t want to see what he was very afraid he would see.

 _Get on with it,_ he knelt next to the body, and gently lifted the sheet…

The body had been burned, charred practically to the bone.  There was no chance of identifying the body by looking at its face.

So Skoda looked down, seeking out the corpse’s right hand.

The glint of gold, on the charred body’s ring finger told him all he needed to know…

“Damn…” he muttered.

_I’m sorry, Jack…so sorry…_

They had burned him alive…

“I need to make a call…” Skoda’s voice felt very far away to his own ears.

_Physician, heal thyself…_

He stood, feeling numb, went back into the house to make that call.

The phone rang three times.

“Who the hell is this?”

Adam Schiff sounded testy.

_At being called at two in the morning?  I’d be testy too.  And I’m about to make it worse…_

“It’s me, Counselor.  There was a home invasion at Atkinson’s place.”

He heard Schiff’s sharp intake of breath.

“Jack…George…“

“George Atkinson’s dead, Adam.  So is Jack.  I’ve seen both bodies.  I’m sorry.”

“Jack?  He’s… _how?”_

“I’ll explain when I…bring him home, Counselor.”

He didn’t want to tell Adam Schiff, didn’t want to let him know how Jack McCoy had died.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack McCoy opened his eyes, vaguely surprised he was still alive.  He sort of remembered being shot, of seeing those men standing over him, their black sticks out; and he knew what they were going to do to him with those black sticks.

Then had come that blinding light…

_Who saved me?_

He remembered that light from other times, and now pure terror reared up.

_They took me again!_

McCoy jolted to his feet.

_I’m not strapped down…_

The room he was in didn’t look like a lab either, and not a drill in sight.

“You’re awake!  Good.”

McCoy turned at the sound of the man’s voice, found himself facing a man roughly his own age, maybe just a little older, with iron-gray hair, and very pale gray-blue eyes.

“Jeremiah Smith,” the man held out a hand.  McCoy stared at that outstretched hand.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” the man…Smith-said.  “I don’t bite.  You’re safe here.”

“Safe…”

Hysterical laughter bubbled up within.

_Safe…_

McCoy was trembling again as he hugged himself.  He wanted to run…he wanted to hide.

“You _are_ hidden,” apparently Smith could read minds too…

Which didn’t exactly make McCoy feel…safe.

“Look at your right hand,” Smith spoke patiently.

_My right hand?_

Perplexed, McCoy did as instructed.  Then, he noticed…

“My ring…what happened to it?”

“I took it off your finger, and put it on one of the dead invaders, one who was about your height and weight,” Smith explained.  “Then, since they were already dead, I burned them all.  Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

McCoy was a moment understanding what Smith had just said.  Then, when Smith’s words made sense, when McCoy finally comprehended what the man had said, his legs folded under him, and he slid to the floor…

“Adam…Claire…” his throat felt dry as dust.

“They’re grieving,” Smith admitted.  “But…they’re not the only ones who think you’re dead.  Your…abductors think you’re dead too.  You’re safe now, Jack.  Really and truly safe.”

McCoy knelt there. 

Adam and Claire were perhaps the only two people he truly loved in the entire world; and he didn’t want to hurt them.

But…

**_They…_ **

_I’m a successful Human/Alien Hybrid.  George made me remember what they did._

He couldn’t let that happen again.  The terror of it was too great.

He nodded shakily as Jeremiah Smith knelt next to him.

“You’re safe, Jack,” Smith assured him.  “They won’t take you ever again…”

 

 

                     

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> References events in X-Files Episode "This is not Happening".

                         Life in Purgatory

                               Chapter 2

_A farm Compound in Montana, 2001_

_This is not happening!_

Dana Scully’s words haunted Agent John Doggett.  They had finally found the missing Agent Fox William Mulder.

Dead…his body bearing scars of terrible torture.

Doggett stood just outside the Morgue, allowing Scully, and her boss, Assistant Director Walter Skinner, the privacy to mourn, Mulder’s sheet-draped body on a table.

Doggett had never known Fox Mulder.  All he knew of Mulder came from the FBI’s dossiers on the man best known as Spooky Mulder.

Whatever emotion he felt now was more rage against the men who had so terribly broken Dana Scully’s heart.

_She loved him…_

Certainly enough to let herself get pregnant by him; as the gossip mill seemed to suggest.

He heard a throat being cleared behind him, and turned…

Junior FBI Agent Giana Parelli stood there, files in a folder.

“Sir,” she spoke to Doggett.  “We’ve uncovered a…surprise.  One of the people we found at the Compound…”

_Yeah…the UFO crazies…_

It looked like Jeremiah Smith was gone, maybe even dead, and Absalom had been sent to the nearest State run nut-house.  But there were plenty of others to comb through…

At least Theresa Hoese was alive.  She had insisted that the people who lived here had saved her life, that they had taken care of her, tried to nurse her back to health.

“Sir,” Parelli held out the file.  “We finger-printed all the ones who had no ID, and… _this_ came up for one of them.”

Doggett took the folder, and opened it.

_You’re fuckin’ kidding…_

He was looking at a photo of a dead man.

“Where is he?”

“In Holding, sir.  We don’t exactly know what to do with him.”

Doggett followed the younger agent down to Holding, and there the man was, in one of the Solitary Cells, sitting huddled against the wall.

His hair was dark, long and shaggy.  That hair, and the scruffy beard, did a lot to change the man’s appearance.  But, looking at the man in the cell, and at the photo, Doggett could tell…

_Fuck me Freddy…It’s Jack McCoy…_

Doggett had left the NYPD back in Ninety-five.  But there were still a few that he kept in contact with.

He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed…

 

…….

_27 th Precinct_

Detective Mike Logan wondered why Lieutenant Anita Van Buren had summoned him to her office.

_She must still be worried about me because of Lennie…_

Detective Lennie Briscoe had died suddenly-heart attack-less than a year before, and, yes, it had been tough getting through that hurdle.  But Logan had pulled through.

Maybe he was getting used to having partners who died on him.

_Max Greevey…_

Phil Cerreta, at least, was still alive.

But Lennie had been special, with his trademark caustic wit covering a veritable heart of gold.

Logan hadn’t wanted another partner.  He really _did_ feel like a black cat now, a curse.

_Be good, or they’ll assign you to Mike Logan…_

His preferences notwithstanding, they gave him a partner anyway; and, for the first time in his professional life, _Logan_ was the staid one.

Detective Ed Green had a bit of a temper, and a reputation for maybe getting a bit too rough with perps.

_I need that like I need a hole in the head…_

But Green was going to be okay…

Feeling nervous, he knocked on Lieutenant Van Buren’s office door.

_Something_ was up.  He could see it in Van Buren’s eyes.

_Stunned shock,_ he decided.

“Lieu?”

“Sit down, Mike,” Van Buren said, handing him a file.  “You’re gonna need it.”

Logan sat, then opened the file.  He was glad, _very_ glad he was sitting as he looked down at the set of fingerprints, and the accompanying photo.

“What is this?” he scowled.  “Someone’s sick idea of a joke?  We fucking _buried_ the man!  Sick fuckers had burned him alive!  After all the hell he had gone through, to die like _that?_ ”

“Easy, Mike” Van Buren spoke softly.  “We all were there.  We all were in grief.  But those prints are real, and a friend of yours will be calling soon.”

“A friend of mine?” Logan sat up straight. 

That was when Van Buren’s phone rang.  She picked it up.

“Lieutenant Van Buren speaking.  Yes, he’s here.”

She handed the phone over to Logan.

“Hey…Mikey…”

“John!  What’s up?  You send these prints over?”

“Yeah, Mikey, I did,” Doggett sighed.  “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s all a sordid prank, but I’m looking at the guy right now.  I don’t know who, or _what_ you guys buried, but this _is_ Jack McCoy.”

“Where are you guys?”

“Montana,” Doggett’s voice told him.  “Can you come down?”

“Guess I have to,” Logan sighed now.  “Jack McCoy was supposedly killed-burned to cinders-in a home invasion at the house of a friend of his.  A body was found, wearing what we identified as Jack McCoy’s signet ring.  We need to know how that happened.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, Mike.”

“Yeah…see you there.”

Logan put the phone down, looked back up at Van Buren.

“Has the DA’s office been told yet?”

“I told the DA,” Van Buren spoke somberly.  “Don’t know if she’s told Claire Kincaid yet.  I’d be afraid to.  Depending on what actually went down at the Atkinson house, charges could be pending.”

“I’ll have to arrest Jack McCoy?”

“I don’t like it either, Mike, but _someone_ faked Jack McCoy’s death.  Maybe it was Jack himself.  Men died there, _five_ men; and Jack’s the only one who knows what happened.”

“Yeah…okay,” Logan nodded jerkily.  “I’ll get Ed, and we’ll be on our way.”

He stood, and made his way out into the bullpen…

_Please…I don’t want to have to arrest Jack McCoy…_

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nora Lewin informs Claire. Mike Logan, Ed Green, and Emil Skoda go to Montana

_1 Hogan Place_

The Executive Assistant DA was sitting at her desk, going over evidence in the murder of Miranda Lopez.  The evidence had been compiled by her Second Chair, Michael Cutter.  He was out now, chasing down yet more leads on the case.

Claire Kincaid put the reports to one side, rubbing her eyes wearily.  Her eyes fell on the one lone photograph on her desk.

That photograph-of her and Jack McCoy-had been taken in happier times; before Jack’s breakdown.

Before his death…

Sometimes, she spoke to that framed picture, to the man who had been her boss, her mentor…her lover.

His death, burned alive in a home invasion, had left a hole, a deep, aching hole, in her heart.

Her office phone rang, and she picked it up.

“Claire Kincaid speaking.”

“Claire,” the DA herself-Nora Lewin-was on the other end. 

“Please come to my office,” Lewin said.  “It’s…important.”

“Coming right over, Nora.”

It was simply a matter of walking across the hall.

Nora Lewin was the Acting DA for the District of Manhattan, in the wake of Adam Schiff’s abrupt departure.  No one would say why Adam had left so suddenly, but Claire knew why.

_Jack’s death broke him…_

Schiff and McCoy had been close, father-and-son close.

So, here Nora Lewin was, taking over for Adam Schiff.

_Just like I took over for Jack…_

Kincaid blinked the tears away.

“Thinking of Jack, Claire?” Nora Lewin’s eyes held deep compassion as she held out a cup of floral-smelling tea.

_With Jack and Adam, it was scotch.  With us, it’s Darjeeling Tea…_

“Yeah…” Claire admitted as she accepted the tea, and sat in the chair across from Lewin.

“Jack’s always with me nowadays,” she continued.  “I talk to him sometimes, about the cases I’ve got, and, sometimes…I can almost hear him talking back.”

“What does he say?”

“Snarky stuff mostly,” Kincaid sighed as she stared into her tea.  “I miss him.”

Lewin shrugged uncomfortably.

“Jack McCoy is the reason I called you into my office, Claire…”

She hesitated slightly.

“Anita Van Buren called me yesterday afternoon, and I spent the rest of the day yesterday, and all of this morning trying to work up the courage to tell you.”

“About what?”

“Jack McCoy isn’t dead.”

The cup of tea slipped from Claire Kincaid’s hands, but she didn’t feel the hot tea as it soaked her knees.  There was this buzzing sound in her head, and her brain just…froze.

_Jack McCoy isn’t dead…_

“Wait…what…” she barely recognized the sound of her own voice.  “ _How?”_

Nora Lewin had come around to kneel directly in front of her, helped dab the tea off her knees with tissue.

“Jack was found, by the FBI,” she spoke gently.  “He was in a compound in Montana.  Detectives Logan and Green should be there by now.”

“Logan and Green?”  Panic welled up.  “Why?”

“Five men died at the Atkinson House.  Jack was there when it happened; but his identifying signet ring was on a different body.  It needs to be looked into.”

“Jack wouldn’t do that!  He _couldn’t!_ ”

But he had been so ill at the end…so terrified…

“If charges _are_ brought against him, you’ll have to recuse yourself,” Lewin continued.

“ _Charges..?_ ” horror filled Kincaid.  “You’re going to charge Jack with murder?”

“I don’t know, Claire.  We’re re-investigating the murders.  The ME who worked the case originally thinks Jack may have been wounded.  There was blood found on the site that didn’t match any of the victims, but does match Jack’s blood-type.  We’ll know more when we question him.”

“Then make sure Dr. Emil Skoda’s on hand.  He was Jack’s psychiatrist at the time.”

“He’s already in the loop,” Lewin nodded.  “He’s going to Montana with Logan and Green.”

Lewin laid a hand atop Kincaid’s hand.

“We’re _not_ going to railroad Jack.  I promise you we’re not going to do that.”

 

…….

_Montana_

The three New Yorkers arrived at the hastily improvised FBI Holding Area. 

Detective Mike Logan was in the lead.  He recognized Agent Dana Scully, accompanied by a tall bald man wearing a badge that identified him as an Assistant Director for the FBI, both walking next to a coffin on a stretcher.

He’d heard the news on the way in.

_Fox Mulder…dead._

He hadn’t liked Mulder; mostly for his attempt to bully a very emotionally fragile Jack McCoy into undergoing regressive hypnosis.  Logan had called Mulder on the bullshit at the time.

No…

He hadn’t liked Fox William Mulder at all.

But Logan had heard dark rumors about how the FBI agent had died.

Agent Dana Scully looked in shock, numb with grief, as she walked next to the stretcher carrying her partner’s coffin, and suddenly all Logan could think of was how gently the members of the _27 th_ had treated him when _his_ partners died; when Max Greevey was killed, when Lennie died…

Blinking tears back, he walked up to Scully.

“Agent Scully,” he said.  “I’m so very sorry.”

“Thank you…” Scully’s voice was barely audible.

“You’re Detective Logan?” the Assistant Director spoke up.

“Yeah…” Logan made the formal introductions.  “I’m Detective Mike Logan, and these are Detective Ed Green, and Dr. Emil Skoda.  We’re here at the request of FBI Agent John Doggett.”

“He’s waiting for you in Holding,” the man said.

“Thank you…”

Logan left the…funeral cortege, and led his companions over to Holding.

There John Doggett was, standing in the hall.

“Mikey!” he strode up.  “Glad you could make it.”

“How is he?”

“McCoy?” Doggett frowned.  “Physically, he seems fine.  Mentally, though…that’s a whole different ballgame…”

“That’s why Dr. Skoda is with us,” Logan nodded.  “Where is Jack?”

“Interrogation One,” Doggett turned.  “Follow me.”

Logan wasn’t prepared for what he saw.  The thin, shaggy-haired man was sitting on a chair in Interrogation One, arms crossed, hugging himself as he rocked back and forth.

_Holy Mother…What happened to him?_

“How do you want to deal with this?” Skoda asked, and Logan sighed. 

“I’ll go in,” he finally said.  “You can observe for now.  I… _think_ he’ll trust me enough to let me do what I need to do.”

“If you’re wrong…” Ed Green spoke up.  “It could be bad.”

“Ed…We’re going to do this _my_ way.  Got it?”

“Okay, man…Just don’t yell at me about it if you’re wrong.”

Logan shook his head, put Green out of his mind.  Then, he opened the door to Interrogation One, and walked in, closing the door as he entered.

Jack McCoy sat there, still rocking slightly, head bowed.  Logan cleared his throat.

“Hello, Jack…”

The rocking stopped, like someone had flipped a switch.  The man sat there, unmoving.

“Look at me, Jack,” Logan sighed.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

Slowly, hesitantly, McCoy looked up.

With that shaggy hair, stopping just shy of his shoulders, and that scruffy beard, the man reminded Logan of James Smith, as he had been when he had killed all those people.

_Jack McCoy didn’t used to be like this…_

This was, in oh so many ways, worse than Lennie Briscoe suddenly dying of a heart attack.

This was the destruction of a brilliant mind.

_Give me a break!  You could indict a ham sandwich!_

_That might be easier.  There’s meat on a ham sandwich!_

“God…” Logan sighed.  “What the fuck did they do to you, Jack?”

It didn’t make his job any easier…

Slowly, Logan took a seat, right next to McCoy.

“Do you remember me, Jack?” he asked.

There was this hesitant nod.

“Yeah…” McCoy’s voice sounded rough, a little hoarse.  “Mike Logan…”

‘Do you understand why I’m here?”

There was fear in McCoy’s eyes, in the set of his shoulders.

“Don’t make me go back,” he whispered.  “I… can’t.  They…they’ll take me again…”

“I have to Jack.  DA’s orders.  I’m to take you back home.”

He laid a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, felt the trembling.

_God…he’s… **terrified** …_

“Am I under arrest?”

“Yeah…Jack.  I have to take you in.”

Head bowed, McCoy lifted his hands, offering his wrists in mute surrender.

As gently as possible, Logan cuffed McCoy, taking the time to Mirandize him.  Then, that done, he helped the other man to his feet, and walked him out into the hall.

_With luck, we’ll be home by tomorrow morning…_

At least Emil Skoda would be along for the ride. 

_Maybe he’ll have some answers for the DA’s office.  God knows I don’t…_

 

                          

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack McCoy comes home...

_Manhattan, NY_

The unmarked police cruiser was heading to the 27th Precinct; and Jack McCoy was reconciled to the inevitable now.

At JFK Airport, he had seen the local New York Papers, had seen the headlines on most of them.

_Presumed Dead Manhattan DA Found Alive In Montana._

A grainy photograph of McCoy, taken sometime in the early Nineties-before his abduction and breakdown-accompanied the headlines; so the cat was well and thoroughly out of the bag.

The unmarked police cruiser was moving as quickly as Manhattan streets allowed, and they would be at the 27th Precinct fairly soon.

Nothing for Jack McCoy to do but sit and wait for whatever came.

He looked down at his wrists, cuffed together in front.  Neither Logan nor Green had tried to question him about the _Atkinson Murders_ , as they were calling it.

In fact, it looked like they were going out of their way to treat him with kid gloves, as Dr. Emil Skoda’s presence here seemed to suggest.

Skoda was sitting on McCoy’s right side, Detective Mike Logan on the left, McCoy wedged in between the two, while Detective Ed Green sat up front, next to the driver; also a man McCoy knew from the 27th, Detective Stan Profaci…

They arrived at the 27th all too soon; and, here too, McCoy could see the care the detectives were taking.

The car parked in the rear, _Employees Only_ Parking Lot, and the detectives led McCoy to the rear, _Employees Only_ Entrance.

Lieutenant Anita Van Buren was there, holding the door open; and McCoy remembered the last time he had seen her.

She had hugged him tightly, lips brushing his hair.

_We all love you.  Whatever happens, remember that…_

“Sally Bell's already here,” Van Buren gazed at him somberly.  “She’s waiting in Interrogation One.”

_Sally Bell?_

She had once been a lover of his, like Diana Hawthorne.

Like Claire Kincaid…

Sally Bell was waiting in Interrogation One.  She looked at McCoy’s cuffed wrists.

“Is that really necessary?” she demanded.

“No…” Logan agreed as he quickly released the handcuffs.

The ADA was also there, a man McCoy recognized from…before.

_Michael Cutter…_

“All right,” Van Buren sighed.  “First, I need to say how very glad we all are that you’re alive, Jack.  You know, we buried a man we thought was you.  He was wearing your signet ring.  Do you have anything to add to the subject?”

McCoy bowed his head, felt Sally Bell's hand on his arm, in warning…or support.  He couldn’t tell which.

“It was a home invasion, Lieutenant.”

“All right, Jack.  Tell us what happened.”

It took him back to that day, to the smell of burning flesh…

“They…burned George,” he shuddered.  “I don’t know how.  They all had these…black little sticks, about four, or five inches long.  One of them…touched George with it.  It was just a touch…”

He couldn’t continue; memory of George Atkinson’s burning body filled his mind, George's screams of agony echoing in his head.

He felt Bell’s arms go around him, hold him as he shook.

Eventually, McCoy felt able to continue.

“They burned him alive,” he felt Bell’s hand stroke his shoulder as he spoke.  He wiped the tears away, forced himself to continue.

“It happened so fast, I didn’t have a chance to help him, and the others were heading at me.  I ran.  Out to the back yard, and that’s where…I think I was shot.”

He remembered the fiery agony of bullets through his chest, he remembered the sensation of drowning on his own blood.

“Just to confirm, you _were_ shot?” Van Buren asked.

“Yeah…” McCoy looked down at his hands.  They were trembling.  He clasped his hands together, forced the trembling to still.

“I don’t remember much after that.  I woke up at the Compound, and Jeremiah Smith was there.  He told me he had switched my ring, put it on one of the Invaders.”

“Do we have proof to back McCoy’s story?” Bell asked

“Actually, yes,” Van Buren held out a folder.  “Mr. McCoy’s blood was found on the site; enough blood to suggest a serious injury.  But that’s not the only thing facing Mr. McCoy.”

McCoy sighed.

“Complicit in faking my own death,” he murmured.

“Jack…” Sally Bell spoke warningly.

“It’s okay, Sally,” McCoy bowed his head.  “I could have tried to call…Claire, or Adam…when I found out what Jeremiah had done.  I could have done that much.  But I didn’t.  I... _couldn't_.”

“Why, Jack?” Dr. Skoda spoke up finally.

“You don’t know what… _they_ …did to me…”

McCoy closed his eyes.  He was shaking again, mouth gone dry.

_Strapped down, naked, upon a cold hard slab, the agony of the drill piercing its way through his skull…_

“They did…things…to me Dr. Skoda.  There were only two ways I could think of to keep it from happening.  I chose to…let Jeremiah Smith make me disappear.”

McCoy fell silent, as memory of a time when he was Executive Assistant DA came back to him.

_You do your own time for your own crime…_

That hadn’t been one of McCoy’s best cases.

“Jack, we can fight this,” Sally Bell spoke up.

“Why?” McCoy asked her.  What was the point?

“Your mental state…”

“I understood what Jeremiah told me, why he did what he did; and I went along with it.  I allowed him to fake my death, and I knew what I was doing when I did it.”

“No prison time!"  Sally Bell glared at Michael Cutter.  "He wouldn’t survive it, and you know it!”

“No prison time,” Cutter spoke up now.  “Considering Mr. McCoy’s psychiatric history, and the fact that he _was_ injured in the Home Invasion, we would settle for a stay at Bellevue Psych, and Community Service.”

“Like what we gave James Smith?” McCoy remembered that, how hard Smith had fought against it.  But, in the end, it had saved James Smith’s life.

“Yes,” Cutter nodded.  “Of course, you will be required to allocute, but-”

“I can do that,” McCoy nodded.

“Are you _sure_ , Jack?” Bell’s hand gently stroked his arm.

“Yeah…” McCoy patted her hand.  “I’m sure…”

“One last question, if I may,” Dr. Skoda said.  “You said there were _two_ ways for you to keep yourself from being abducted again.  Letting Jeremiah Smith fake your death was one of them.  What was the other way?”

“I think you know…” McCoy couldn't bring himself to look Skoda in the eye.

“I want to hear it from _you_ , Jack.”

McCoy sighed, closed his eyes for a second.

“All right..." He sighed.  "If Jeremiah's plan to make me disappear didn't work, I was going to kill myself.  Are you happy now?”

…….

It hadn’t come to a trial.

Claire Kincaid quietly entered the Court Room, finding a seat at the rear.  She only had eyes for the Defendant.  His back was to her, so she couldn’t see his face.  His hair had been combed neatly, but it was long, almost down to his shoulders.

It was only an _E-Felony_ , but there wouldn’t be any prison time.  Dr. Skoda had already given his testimony on Jack McCoy’s mental state.

Now, Jack McCoy was speaking, giving his agreed-upon Allocution, Sally Bell standing at his side.

“I did this to… _hide_ ,” that slightly raspy voice she missed hearing so much, the voice she had so often heard in her dreams, continued.  “There was no intent to defraud, or hurt anyone.  I was trying to save _my_ life.”

“Are the People Satisfied?” Judge Stephen Harrow asked.

“Yes,” Michael Cutter stood.  “The People are satisfied.”

“Good,” Harrow looked at the man standing in the Defendant’s space.

“It’s a tragedy when one of our own falls, even more so when mental illness lies at the heart of it.  Mr. McCoy, what you did is understandable, in light of your illness.  However, as you yourself have admitted, you knew exactly what you were doing.  You will be sent to Fordham Psychiatric Center for such amount of time as your doctor believes necessary; after that time, you will be sent to a Half-way House to begin your term of Community Service.”

The Gavel banged, and it was all done.  As everyone disbanded, Sally Bell looked back, her eyes catching Claire Kincaid’s.

Kincaid sighed.  Sally Bell had been one of Jack McCoy’s…three assistants before Claire Kincaid.

_This is going to be awkward…_

Claire stood, made her way over.

As she approached, she saw Bell gently touch McCoy’s shoulder, turn him around to see Claire; and now Kincaid saw Jack McCoy’s face, the long dark hair, the scruffy beard.

_How thin he’s become!_

Apart from the shaggy hair and beard, there was something else, though…

He didn’t really look any older than he had upon their first meeting.

Something about that felt…alarming somehow; but Kincaid put it aside.  She was just too glad to see him alive and standing right there.

“Jack…” Kincaid walked up to him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him tightly.

McCoy’s body stiffened, for all of three seconds.  Then, he sighed, and his arms went around her too.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” his voice was a soft whisper in her ear.  “I never wanted to hurt you like this.”

“We’ll talk,” she assured him as she pulled back to take him in.  “When you’re all settled.  One way or another, we’ll get you through this.”

_That_ , at least, was something she could do.

_I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again…_

                               

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Why didn’t you _call_  me when you found him?”

Claire Kincaid listened to an absolutely furious Adam Schiff, calling Long-distance all the way from Germany.

“Sorry, Adam…”she explained.  “We were all in shock over it.”

“And you let him plead guilty…”

“I didn’t _let_ anything, Adam!” Claire snapped back.  “For the record, _I_ had to recuse myself; and no one twisted Jack’s arm into pleading Guilty.  Sally Bell wanted to fight it.  _Jack_ made the decision.  But they didn’t Sentence him to Prison.  They Sentenced him to a psych hospital and Community Service.  He’s at Fordham Psych, but only until Emil says he’s well enough to begin Community Service.”

“But his license to practice Law…” Adam grumbled.

“He lost that when he was declared dead, in Ninety-Seven,” Kincaid reminded him.

Besides, it was highly unlikely that Jack McCoy would be in a position to actually _want_ to practice Law again.

There was a moment’s silence.

“How is he?” Schiff finally asked, and Claire sighed.

“Physically, he’s fine, Adam.  But, mentally…”

She sighed again.  She had ridden with Jack McCoy, up to Fordham, so he would have a friend with him through the Admissions process.  Dr. Emil Skoda was there too, but strictly in his professional capacity.

“Jack’s…fragile…Adam.  He’s so… _afraid_.”

Now, Kincaid heard Schiff’s sigh.

“I’m coming back,” he finally said.  “I’ll be in Manhattan by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll pick you up at JFK,” Claire nodded.  “But you won’t be able to visit Jack for a while.  Hospital Policy, no visitors for two weeks, to allow the patient to acclimate to his new situation, and begin intensive therapy, including medications…”

“I know…” this wouldn’t be the first time Schiff had visited Jack in a psychiatric hospital.

 

…….

_Fordham Psychiatric Center_

It had been a week now, and Jack McCoy felt like a fly stuck in molasses.

_The medication…_

At least it had stopped the daily nightmares.  Even back at the compound in Montana, he’d had those nightmares every night.

That was the one thing Jeremiah Smith had been unable to heal.  That, and the panic attacks…

_The man could heal fatal gunshot wounds, and broken bones.  He could heal virtually everything._

McCoy had watched as Smith almost literally brought Theresa Hoese back from the dead.

But Jeremiah Smith couldn’t heal the damage wrought on McCoy by all of those abductions.

_They changed my brain.  Jeremiah Smith told me…_

_I’m more like… **them** …than my fellow human beings._

The migraines had increased too, in frequency, and intensity, and that, too, Jeremiah Smith had been unable to stop.

The reason why was frightening.

 _Your brain is still changing, Jack,_ he had told McCoy.  _The neurons of your brain are making new connections, adapting to what was entered into your brain.  You are in the process of becoming something utterly… **new.**_

Not alien, not human; but something that partook of both natures…

“Where were you, Jack?” Emil Skoda’s voice brought him back to now.

McCoy shook his head slightly, smiling ruefully.

“Nothing important,” he sighed.  “How long before I can start my Community Service?”

Skoda sighed, obviously frustrated.

“We’ll need to see how you do on these medications,” he finally said.  “We want to make sure there aren’t any side-effects.”

McCoy nodded.  He didn’t want that either.

“So…” Skoda leaned forward.  “How _are_ you feeling, Jack?”

McCoy shrugged.

“The usual, Emil,” he looked up at the psychiatrist who was becoming a… _friend?_

“I mean…I have these dreams, Emil…and I don’t know if they represent anything real, or if they’re just delusions.  I…can’t tell the difference.”

He looked down at the floor, and it was the hardest thing he had ever down, continuing to speak.

“They…whoever they were… _whatever_ they were…they hurt me.  They _drilled_ into my skull, they…put _tubes_ into me…”

“Where did they put those tubes?”

Pure fury rose up at Skoda’s question.

“Where did they put those tubes?” McCoy hissed, sudden rage flickering red at the edges of his vision.  “Where the fuck do you _think_ they put those tubes?”

He broke off shuddering as memory of… _that…_ filled his brain, felt his shoulders hunch.

“They didn’t knock me out…” he was shivering.  “They didn’t give me anything for pain.  I _felt_ what they did to me!  Every fucking bit of it!”

McCoy felt utterly drained by the telling of it, felt Skoda’s hands on his shoulders, and he bowed his head.

Emil continued to hold him, until his pulse slowed to something reasonable, until the fury and…grief…had trembled its way out of his system.

“I know it doesn’t feel this way now, Jack,” the psychiatrist said.  “But, you _will_ find a way to process what was done to you.  You _will_ recover.”

_I wish I had his faith…_

McCoy slowly pulled himself back together, managed a shaky nod.

“If you say so, Emil…”

For himself, Jack McCoy was far from sure.

Besides, if Jeremiah Smith was right, there was yet another question hovering over Jack McCoy’s head.

_What does recovery mean for a Human/Alien Hybrid?_

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
